Lights
by Pinstripes and Buttons
Summary: Molly lives with John in 221B. Mycroft has collapsed on the inside. Lestrade's success has come at the price of his sanity. As a close encounter with a shooter begins to turn into something more, all the men in her life are desperate to keep Molly close as the shadows close in around her.
1. A Glimpse of Molly

The corridor was dark, a bluish light filtering through the alley faced window, an orangey pool hovering at the far end. He would still be awake, even as the clock dragged itself towards two. It was never that he had simply overlooked the need to switch off the lamps. Not anymore. In the wounded silence of the flat, Molly's slow footsteps sent whispers along the floorboards. She had been sleeping, though sleep was a strange idea in these days. She had never truly found it again after it abandoned her, two months ago.

In the common room, John was folded in the arm chair that had once belonged to the man they had both loved, too dearly. His fingers were knotted in his blond hair, chest nearly to his knees. Molly stood for unmeasured time just staring at him, witnessing all of his pain and depression. Then, like a ghostly being, she walked forward and knelt on the floor before him. He hesitated before his eyes faced her own. Molly's skin crawled at the sight of all that anguish, the howling torment trapped within him like a savage beast.

Gently, she touched his arms and they dropped to his lap, exhausted. Brushing her fingers over the fringe of his hair, she sighed quietly. His lips quivered but he did not speak. There were no words. She had taken them from his tongue without doing more than being present. As her hands rested on either side of his face, the material world around them faded. When his eyes met hers again, they were lined with tired emotion, a fragile peace cleansing the surface.

Molly led him to his room, bid him a lasting sleep, and closed the door with a subtle click. Alone in the corridor, she held herself tight, head bowed and legs trembling. To see from afar held no flame in comparison to the raging fire of feeling someone else's pains. Gasping quietly, she lowered herself to the floor, pressing a shaking hand to its stable surface. In earlier times, she would have collapsed with the weight of John's inner turmoil. Now, she was stronger. She could see that reflected in his stormy blue eyes; her efforts were working, albeit at a snails pace, but nonetheless, working.

When she could no longer hold on to all of his emotion, she released it back to him. It would not cause him to wake, not just yet. There were knots now loosened and undone, and he could rest with some solace. Molly had lessened his burden, yet she still possessed the full amount of her own. Nobody could relieve her of the weight pressing against her chest, because nobody really saw how heavy it was to carry.


	2. Unexplained Meeting

Mycroft pulled himself from bed in a timely manner, washed promptly, dressed respectfully, and went about his day. He spoke with some officials, had lunch with a foreign client to establish relations, and in general had a very mundane run at things. He arrived back at his home at a reasonable hour and accepted the tea offered to him by one of the housekeepers.

On the inside, he was dead.

His eyes ran over the headlines of the paper with detached amusement. It was always the same mundane occurrences. Happy anniversary to so-and-so, pitiful obituary for such-and-such, and the occasional report coming out of the courts. To be bitterly honest, Mycroft had expected a surge of crime following the demise of his brother, but no such thing occurred. The people at Scotland Yard seemed to be getting along just fine, with his brother's college Detective Inspector Lestrade constantly in the section of the paper devoted to the reporting of crime. He had been the one Mycroft assumed would take a leave of absence in the wake of the tragedy. Much like himself, however, Detective Inspector Lestrade had acted in opposition to the assumption.

A firm looking woman with her hair pulled into a strict bun and a crisp pressed pant suit adorning her slender frame walked into the room. In her serious yet neutral tone, she announced plainly, "Mr Holmes, you have a female caller, sir."

"Send her in." he replied, not looking up from the paper, but rubbed the bridge of his nose his peripherals he saw her nod before the striking of her heels on the wooden floor announced her departure. A few moments later, a pair of quieter shoes made their way across the room. "You may sit." he offered, folding the paper to maintain manners.

The woman in the chair opposite him had the kind of face someone wouldn't be able to recall if she landed in a police lineup. Mousy brunette hair with guarded brown eyes didn't draw any sort of attraction from Mycroft. His interest, however, was picked by her expression. It was entirely void of anything readable. If his brother was there, he'd have very minimal to go on. Maybe something trivial, like her clothes, but not what Mycroft was interested in: her reason for requesting an audience with him.

"Sorry," she apologized right away, knotting her fingers together, eyes avoiding his own. He watched her with a measure gaze, curious. Perhaps she didn't know who exactly he was.

"Could I get you anything?"

Her eyes focused on his immediately. "No, no I'm fine thank you. Sorry, again. I'm Molly Hooper."

"From St Bartholomew's Hospital, correct?"

Molly's lips curved in a slight way, as though a smile was present but on a different plane of existence. "Yes, um, I worked with Sherlock for a long time and, sorry, he just never mentioned you." She closed her eyes, angling her face away from his. He watched her curiously, but refrained from speaking. There was surely some sort of point to be reached, and patience with people like her was absolutely required if he should have a hope of finding out.

Mycroft did find though that her most recent words pained him. Of course he and his brother never exactly got along, what with Mycroft thinking him to be immature and rebellious. It just might have been nice to discover that he had at least been mentioned to this Miss Hooper at least on one account. Perhaps she simply couldn't remember, being plain and withdrawn.

When Molly looked at him again, there was a glimmer about her eyes. "I was just wondering if you, needed anything." she said, her voice catching slightly but pulling through adequately enough. "Not that you don't have, resources, or any of that. Just, I thought it might maybe be nice, to just have someone listen. You know, and not evaluate you."

He leaned forward in his chair, resting his lips lightly against his forefingers. If he could, he might have chuckled at her proposition. He didn't even crack a smile. "Are you here for money, photos - any sort of memorabilia? What makes you think you could help me? I've never met you before today."

Molly shifted in her seat, clearly uncomfortable, yet other than that movement and the shine to her eyes, she gave nothing away. Nearly perfectly unreadable. It made her all the more intriguing, and yet there was an isolated air encasing her. "I've been working very personally with Dr John Watson, colleague and friend of Sherlock Holmes. Um, if you - never mind. I'm being foolish."

She began to rise from her chair; Mycroft was on his feet before he could register the reasoning behind his action. "You're Dr Watson's new therapist?"

The corner of her mouth twitched. "Therapist?"

"If I'm speaking correctly, yes, that's how Dr Watson referred to his 'replacement.' If it's any consolation, he spoke of you as a glorious improvement, quoting 'her techniques are unmatched.'" Mycroft offered, suddenly desperate for Miss Hooper to stay in his company. There was a shift in the atmosphere. A kind of charge settled between them like the early signs of a lightning storm, causing the hair on his arms to rise, but he dismissed the feeling.

Molly glanced over his shoulder, but before she could blink, any notion of what she might have seen was gone. Refocusing on Mycroft, she nodded absently. "Thank you. I - I actually didn't know, that'd he'd said that about 'me.'" she put the last word in air quotes, but any joke lacked substance.

"How is it that you found me?" he asked.

She hesitated, and in those guarded eyes he could find no reason for it. "Research," and she didn't elaborate further.

Mycroft gave a single nod after a pause. Motioning for her to walk with him, he saw her to the door, something out of character for him, as she was not family or even remotely important. The latter, though, was a lie. If Dr Watson found importance in her, and Sherlock sought her company in the professional sense, than she was evidently someone of value, albeit subtly. "Take care, Miss Molly Hooper. I expect we shall speak in the future."

The fact that it was not a question oddly gave Molly a tiny spark of elation. "Absolutely," and she walked down the drive, Mycroft following her every footfall with his steady gaze, no closer to understanding her intentions than he had been before.


	3. Forks and Arrows

(chapter 3, part 1)

"Did you want to go for take-away?" Molly asked when John wandered into the common room of the flat. It was Thursday, mid afternoon and she was folded into Sherlock's old chair, for the very reason that she didn't want John to sit there. That had been a mistake she'd made the first time, and the result had been horrifying.

John had become accustomed to this as well, and had informed Molly a short while back that he was fine with the arrangement. Now, with his grey streaked blond hair gently tousled from sleep and dressed in his sleepwear, John nodded in her direction. "Yeah, that'd be great."

Molly watched him move around to the kitchen. "Did you sleep okay?"

"Yeah, it was, it was all right. Strange, but . . ." his voice trailed.

She didn't fail to notice. "How do you mean?"

These post removal conversations were beginning to follow a general pattern. They used to be non-existent, then jumbled and useless. Now, Molly was capable of discovering a touch of insight into how her efforts were affecting John in a conscious manner. She needed that reassurance spoken in his voice. It told her she was doing the right thing. What Sherlock would have wanted her to do, had he known she could do anything at all.

"Just, it was that grey area again. I was walking and there was nothing else. No light, no dark, no near, no far - just, grey." John came back, spearing his hair with his fingers, stretching his shoulders. "I don't know why, it's actually very relaxing there."

Molly nodded.

"Anyhow, I'll go dress, then we can be off. Um," he cleared his throat, blinking back the haze of sleep still caught in his eyes. "Did you go to Bart's this morning?"

Her eyes held his for a moment. "Yes, I had some, paperwork to finish off." She had been down to the morgue, yes, but she hadn't exactly been pleading to stay. St Bart's used to be somewhere she felt comfortable, somewhere she knew without any doubt that she belonged. That had since changed.

John nodded and walked back to his room.

A handful of minutes later, he was back, the fragrance of his shampoo lingering on his skin and in his hair. Molly rose from the chair and set her book on the floor. It would probably end up nudged partway underneath, despite John's attempts not to disturb her belongings. He knew that she had been living essentially on her own since she was old enough to do so, always without constant company. While he was trying to give her that illusion, as a pitiful repayment for her overwhelming generosity, he knew in his heart that he could greatly improve. He just wasn't sure if she truly minded the reoccurring displacement of her things or not. _He_ might have been able to read her, but John was more than not always lost when it came to Molly Hooper.

Outside, the air was crisp, and the feeling of an impending storm lingered in the background. The pair walked along the street, side by side but never touching. A few times in the past, John had wondered after her reaction should he take her hand in his. Not as a romantic notion - heavens no - but rather as a way of letting her know that he cared for her, that he was there, if she ever needed him in return.

"How about this one up here?" he suggested, indicating towards a quaint little hole in the wall Chinese buffet.

Molly nodded, brushing a lock of hair from her eyes. "Sure."

They crossed the street, John moving from her left to her right so that he was always first in the path of oncoming traffic. He would more than gladly take on a car if that meant she stayed protected.

Inside, a hostess came to seat them. "No, no, um, we've come for take-away."

The Chinese woman laughed. "No, no, I seat you here. Nice table, good view." She started off, turning once to beckon them forward. John glanced to Molly, who shrugged lightly, a gentle smile touching her lips. They followed after the woman. She gestured them into a small booth and set on the table two of everything. "Food on the wall over there. Need anything, ask me." She scuttled away.

"Sorry," John said, shrugging off his coat before taking his plate. "I thought it said 'Take-Away' on the banner outside."

Molly stood, her own plate in hand and followed behind John to the food. "Oh it did. This is fine though. Keeps us out of the flat."

John could help but chuckle, "That's true enough. We never leave unless we have work." He began to load his plate with food, large potions of the dishes he was particularly fond of, and smaller helping of things he wanted to try. Molly piled her own with fried rice and noodles, a spring roll and side of vegetables. "You don't like the meat?"

She didn't look at him, focused on not dropping anything in the front dish. The yellow light of the heat lamps gave her skin a healthy glow, filling the emptiness of her expression, extending her soft smile. "Mum always got this when we had Chinese. It's just a habit." She faced him, her brown eyes open ajar, just enough for him to see the glimmer of a memory. Before he said anything, his feet carried him back to their table.

They ate in a comfortable company. Any lulls in conversation were welcome, and the silence was a mutual respect for the other person's thoughts. Molly pinched the spring roll between her fingers, tearing it apart so fine wisps of steam rose into the air. John watched her curiously, asking as she pulled the insides out of the shell, "What are you doing?"

A touch of colour brushed across her cheeks. "Dad used to. He didn't like the shell, always told me it makes the rice taste better."

Tentatively, John said. "How long ago, did he, um, pass on?"

Molly kept her attention on her food, so that even if he could read her, he wouldn't have seen anything. "I'd just graduated. He told me he'd hung on to see me walk the stage, because 'how could he miss something so important?' That's what he told me." There was a strength in the vulnerable tone of her voice, something John couldn't quite understand.

"What about your own?" Molly asked, bringing him out of any thoughts he may have been having.

"Retired, actually. Moved to Ireland for a change of scene. We're not really in touch." John moved his food around his plate; Molly nodded, saying nothing further.

Midway through their meal, there was a shriek in the kitchen followed quickly by a gunshot. Molly jumped in her seat; two more shots rang out and John bolted from the table. "Stay there!" he shouted back over the panic escalating in the restaurant, ""

Molly watched him run off into the crowd of people desperately pushing to get out. Her fingers clutched her fork so tight that her knuckles were stark white. She was trying to hear over the clamoring, to get an idea of what was going on. A man ran up to her and clutched her arm, trying to pull her out of the booth. "Are you stupid? Get out of here!" he shouted at her.

John had told her to stay. The man continued to pull at her arm, and while in the back of her mind she was glad for his concern, she stabbed his hand with the fork. He released his hold, cursing before abandoning her. Molly's fingers let go of the weapon, and she slid under the table, trying to regain control of her breathing. She'd just stabbed someone! She'd never done more than swat a fly. The restaurant was empty of patrons, and in the distance she could hear the sirens approaching.

That's when the first plate shattered. If nobody was inside except for John and the kitchen staff, and they were all in the kitchen, than that left somebody else in the dinning area. As more plates and glasses fell to the floor, Molly clasped a hand over her mouth. What if it was the shooter? What if he found her?

Molly made herself smaller, holding her head close to her chest. She still saw the shoes pointing at her, two identical arrows giving her secret away. Then, she was gone.


	4. Suspicious Nature

(part 2)

He had clearly been there. But why? For what reason? She wasn't important, no, not important at all. Just a stupid girl with a heart too big for her own good. Perfectly stupid. Maybe it had been for the man. He had been his friend, after all. What an obedient little mutt that soldier had been. Still was, tending to the worthless wounds of the idiot staff. Maybe that was the motive, but it was not full enough. There were details missing, always missing.

A shift in the table cloth and a pale hand slid out. That's interesting. Oh, of course, the stupid girl. Miserably stupid. Yup, passed out by fright. Pathetic heart couldn't handle the real world unfolding around her. Laughable. No wonder she works with the dead. They are a trifle more frightening than dust bunnies.

Here comes the mutt, the day's hero. Oh goodie, the police. God, they are so irksome with their petty consciences and do-good attitudes. At any rate, he's not here, and while kidnapping is fun, best not push luck. Maybe next time. The mutt and his stupid girl will likely get in the way again, if they have any connection to Mr Holmes at all.

[-][-][-]

When Molly opened her eyes again, all she could see was blue. Dark blue, stormy like the ocean blue, whose waves are powerful enough to consume vessels whole, as if they were nothing more than autumn leaves. Her eyes closed and opened slowly. She could hear something happening in the background, but that's all it was: background noise. Her mind kept telling her to tune in, but she only wanted to tune it out, because she couldn't possibly belief what was happening.

John would not let anyone near her, and Lestrade, who had been the first to fly through the restaurant doors, ensured that John got his wish. "Molly," John's voice broke through the cluttered noises. "Can't you hear me?" he asked, a plea in his voice.

"I can make your pain go away." she murmured, lifting a trembling hand only to steal herself from touching him. Oh, how she wanted nothing more than to rid his eyes of that hurt. Not while he was awake, so focused and aware of her. No, she couldn't break that illusion. John pulled her up and into his arms, embracing her with his strong arms. Molly gently touched the back of his cardigan to support herself, resting her forehead in the hollow of his neck.

"I thought you were dead." he whispered against her ear; Molly's heart broke, spilling down her face uncontrolled and perfectly invisible.

Lestrade glanced over his shoulder, gave a few more orders and strode over to where John held Molly. He crouched, resting on his haunches. "She's all right."

John nodded, managing a strong voice, "She's in shock. She's, she's in shock."

Lestrade parroted John's movement. "Take her home. I'll collect your statements later." He rose to his feet, and took Molly from John so that the other man could rise to his own feet. Molly turned her face to his, and Lestrade's breath hitched. Of all the people, in all the shit circumstances he'd seen, she was the last one under the sun he expected to see in tears. She had always been so unaffected, even in the wake of Sherlock's death. She had been the only one who never let slip if she was hurting.

Carefully, as if afraid she would dissolve into nothing in his arms, he gave her a hug. "I'm fine." she whispered into his jacket.

"I know," he whispered back. Before John could lead her away, he added, "The offer still stands."

John put his arm around Molly's waist to steady her as they left the crime scene. Lestrade absently touched his hand to the spot on his jacket where her ceasing tears had stained. Right over his heart.

At the door, she had no need for John's hold. With a face now dry of tears, once more only tired, she glanced back at Greg. He was knelt over something, an animated strength in his words. Maybe she would take him up on the offer.


	5. Clouds and Ice

(Part 3)

John dropped his keys on the kitchen table as Molly drifted to the chair that had once been Sherlocks. John, unlike himself as of late, paced the floor with such intensity in his eyes that Molly feared he might actually burn a trench in the carpets. Always with muttering that crested and caved like storm waves, his fingers played wildly at the end of his moving arms, always anxious, not quite yet angry.

"John?" Molly asked, tentative, her voice unnaturally small, not wanting to startle him too greatly.

"Yes?" he returned, eyes meeting hers, all cloud and ice. In so long, far to long, she had not seen such a burden of layered emotion. He had always been too weighed with his grief to aim for much more than firework happiness that faded too soon against the uncertain backdrop.

Molly made to rise, to reach out to him, but hesitated, saying instead, "It wasn't your fault."

He shook his head. "I told you to stay." John ran his fingers through his hair, a fear of his own alight in those eyes. "If something had happened-"

Molly held up a hand. "If I'd left and I had been taken, or trampled, then maybe I would tolerate that nonsense." her tone was annoyed, like a mother who is telling her child the same remark for the hundredth time. "You're only causing your own misery and we both have plenty of that already, wouldn't you agree?"

She rose to her feet in a smoulder; in the fluid movements from sitting to standing, the emotional range of her very core flew across her eyes like lightning. Like lightning, it was gone in a single instant, a single crack of energy, vanished.

John stared at her, and Molly, who always tried so hard to help him, turned and walked to the room he couldn't open. The room that, by merely existing, served as nothing but a painful reminder of what they had lost. The room that she had taken without thought or hesitation because where else was there for her to stay, where else was there for her to go. It was painful but it was hopeful, and that was a lesson she had learned so very ago. _When you learn to understand the purpose of hope, the suffering will not be nearly as painful, and the hope, not quite so paralyzing._


	6. Yellow Paper

Chapter 4.1

He woke with a jolt. His cellphone buzzed against the desktop, making progress towards the pen he hadn't put away. Five missed calls, all different numbers. From who? -pay phones, the only universal phone. Wonderful, exactly what he needed. Another tip.

Lestrade rubbed his face with his hands, reclining in his chair, grateful the blinds had been drawn over his office windows. Donavan wouldn't let him hear the end of it . . . well, maybe not so much anymore. She hadn't exactly been keen on showing up at his door these days, not since - not that she cared. Really, she was just embarrassed about the whole thing.

It had grown considerably dark outside the street faced window, though Lestrade could think of only one place he might venture to. St. Bart's would have processed the body attached to the case he was working on by now.

His last had been _The Wall Street Killer_, named so by the media. Hilarious really, because Wall Street was an American thing. Nevertheless, it fit, what with all the wealthy people dropping like flies. That had only lasted a couple of weeks though, before he allegedly solved it. Not that he himself had truly done much more than carry out instructions.

That's what he hated. The unknown factor of all the encrypted messages that only began to show up a week following the ... the death. Always the same, always childlike and yet almost always correct. But it couldn't be him, because Lestrade wasn't a fool enough to believe in things like that. Ghosts might exist, sure, but Sherlock was either brutally real, or altogether gone. There was no in between with him in life, so he couldn't believe that would have changed in death.

Making up his mind, Lestrade rose to his feet and gathered his coat from where it hung on the rack. As he pushed his arms into the sleeves and flipped the collar, a single yellow piece of paper fluttered toward the floor. He caught it before it could make the full journey. In blue crayon, a single drawing of an eye marked the page. Nothing more, nothing less. And it gave him absolutely nothing to boot.


	7. Fleeting, Slipping

Chapter 4.2

The lights glowed in their neatly spaced squares as Lestrade approached the hospital. The path the the morgue was second nature to him and yet always unfamiliar. There were always new faces in the corridor outside, or none at all, which was equally disconcerting. Always grief and pain, or an absence of all emotion. Lestrade couldn't decide which was more favourable.

The doors to the morgue were dimly lit, which indicated that whoever was inside was working in the lab and not with the bodies. As he made to push one of the doors open, down the hall the way he came another one slammed shut. The sound reverberated along the walls, making him start. He paused, waiting for someone to appear around the corner; there were no other exits before the door at the far end where Lestrade never went. He heard no footsteps, no breathing, no noise aside from the faint hum of the hanging lights.

He took a few steps, listening, trying to pull any indication from the air as to who might be there. When he couldn't, he resorted to calling, "Who's there?" His voice grew as it travelled, unnaturally loud in the consuming silence. The click of shoes; he moved further back the way he had come, fingering the gun on his belt, but not extracting it yet.

"Greg?"

His gun came out as he spun around, so fast that he could only react, couldn't think to recognize the voice.

"Why are you here?" he asked, breathless, embarrassed.

Molly moved the gun from in front of her head, stepping back. "I work here, remember?"

Lestrade chuckled weakly. "Yeah, sorry." he returned his gun to it's proper place, clearing his throat. "I just wouldn't have thought you'd be at work so soon."

"I've been coming in three to eleven most days. It's the only time I feel right."

"Leaving John alone?"

Molly didn't answer, but her guarded look said enough. She started back towards the morgue doors. She never held them open, not obviously, but her fingers lingered, holding back the door from its frame until she was out of reach. Lestrade never understood why.

"So I've gone over the file, and your victim has been identified by family as William Gregory. He was the only white male to be employed by the establishment to work in the kitchens." Molly continued, listing off injuries, actual cause of death, and other medical findings he didn't object a briefing on. He hadn't even asked, and Molly didn't seem fazed by this.

The whole time she spoke, she never met his eyes. She always looked at the page, reading directly from it, or else indicated on the body at major areas of interest. All the while she spoke, he forgot about the slip of yellow paper, the eye, and the weight of his conscious.

"Greg?" Molly stopped, staring at him now, not letting in see through her, see what she was looking for.

"You're the only one that uses my name, you know."

"Pardon?" She looked surprised.

Quickly, he shook his head. "Sorry, I haven't been sleeping well lately."

Molly's lips shadowed a smile. "I understand." Her lips stayed parted for a moment after her words had left, as if she wished to say something more, but decided against it when she shut her mouth, moving away from him, toward the lab.

"Molly," Lestrade began, following her. "Molly, about earlier - are you sure-"

"I'm fine, a hundred times over and with the power of the sun, I promise the world I am fine." She had her back to him as she spoke, but the subtle sarcasm was welcomed by his ears, which had heard little else from her in so long. "Just, stop treating me like a doll. I'm not going to shatter."

"You're the only one who hasn't after-"

"I'm fine." she cut across him, still not facing him, not working, not moving. She didn't want to hear him say it, not in her place of safety. Not where bad things couldn't happen because all the bad things had already passed before they could enter through her doors. This was her refuge from all of the prying and the sadness and the hurt.

"Molly," his voice was small, exhausted, and when she looked at him finally, she could see more clearly than even moments ago, how violently clear the weariness about him was. "You can't pretend forever."

Her arms were crossed over her front. She shrugged, "I don't pretend. I'm preoccupied."

"With work?"

She exposed a real smile, however fleeting. It held all the warmth of the world, and it was there, just for him, just for his peace of mind and his slipping grip on reality. "Hardly." she said, "Somebody has to look after you boys."

"Who looks after you?" Without thinking, he extended his arm to place his hand on hers. It was a comforting gesture without much attachment, the only way his job allowed him to be human sometimes. For Molly, he just wanted to show her, in some buried part of his mind, that she didn't have to be cut off from the world. That someone could help her too, if only she'd let them close enough.

She jerked her hand from the table, face locking down, quick as a viper strikes it's prey. Molly moved her hands to her back, and, not looking at him, asked him to leave. She was busy.

Bewildered, Lestrade could only nod. He made it as far as the first set of doors, the last stop before the air became warm and alive, before he turned. "I'll always be here for you. Whenever you admit you can't do everything. Even if it takes years, Molly Hooper. That's my promise to you, because despite what you think, you're not fine. Not anywhere close to it."


	8. A Version of Normal

Chapter 4.3

Molly pressed her mouth against her knuckles, eyes shut, ashamed. That had been her chance, probably not her last, but surely her most convenient, to take him up on his offer. If he hadn't have reached out, maybe she would have brought it up. She wouldn't have pulled away from him like she was afraid of him because she wasn't afraid of him.

She was afraid that he would grow afraid of her. Of what she could do.

The first time she had made contact with people, it wasn't as horrible as one would guess. Her parents could hold her and help her and she was normal. Was normal, past tense. When she began to sense a change she also began to withdraw from physical contact, or most of it. Touch was okay, sometimes but rarely, in situations she had control over.

Like when it came to John, who always wore his jumpers and sweaters and long sleeved shirts. She could reach out, touch his shoulder, rest her hand on his arm, let him know without saying that she was there for him. She could connect with him, be a version of normal for an instant. Be a friend, an open heart. She just couldn't feel the cool, calloused skin of his palm, or the roughness of his knuckles.

That's why it stung to hear Greg sound so unaffected with his words. Because he couldn't understand why she'd pulled away from him. Because she would never let herself tell him.


	9. Love and Fear Her

Chapter 5.1

Mycroft waited in his usual chair, hoping for word of his guest. When he heard a set of heels approaching, he rose to his feet in a casual manner, despite his excitement at the prospect of friendly company. He had tolerated enough of the business world these past months, and the very notion of knowing none of the conversation would deal with it enthralled him. "Mr Holmes, you have a female caller." One of the housekeepers said. She tried to mask her surprise at the sight of him standing before her, as he usually had his back to her, but it was written as plain on her face as the words of a novel.

"I will go meet her. Put on some tea, would you?"

"Of course, Mr Holmes." She hesitated to move, but without him saying so she regained her composure and held her tongue. It was not her place and need not ever be. That's why Miss Molly Hooper had come. The first visit of many, he anticipated.

She was standing in the foyer, her hair pulled into a simple bun, light jacket over a blouse, straight leg denim. A classic contemporary look that riveted him, rendering him for a sole second incapable of speech or movement. She had actually come back, a reality that hit him more forcefully than he expected. It was all good to hope and wish but to see and be close enough to feel, well, there was a whole other realm.

Walking to meet her, he said lightly, "I hope you had a pleasant cab ride."

Those eyes of her betrayed little, but her voice felt like a smile to his ears. "Yes, quiet, but fine."

"And Mr Watson is well I presume?" He asked, an attempt at conversation. It wasn't business, and the atmosphere shifted when Molly was around. It grew both comforting and absent, an unexpected and fragile blend.

"He hasn't emailed you?" Molly replied, not so concerned but indifferent, in a manner that neither suggested she felt one way or the next. It was just a question.

Mycroft shook his head. "He hasn't as of late, though I suspect I know the cause. It was in the paper just yesterday. Have you seen it?"

"The article, no. I've been preoccupied."

"You were there I suppose, though you're not mentioned." Mycroft had started back the way he had come, Molly a half step behind him. Instead of turning to his study, he turned right, down a length of corridor that led to a parlour style room. It was more comfortable, for guests that is. Of course, he rarely went in there otherwise. Strictly functional in the business sense, not that this was a business endeavour, but nevertheless.

Molly didn't comment until they walked through the threshold. "I was, yes."

"You must have been rattled. An experience like that no doubt would be fear inducing." Mycroft spoke, motioning for the housekeeper to enter with the tea. "Sugar?"

Molly shook her head; she only took milk in her tea, a very little bit at that. Coffee was more her taste, but she didn't want to be rude. It would get her nowhere.

For a handful of minutes they sat in a still silence, Mycroft watching Molly over the rim of his mug, Molly fixed on her tea. He didn't know what to make of her. John Watson always wrote so admiring of her, speaking of how she made sure he woke up to a fresh pot of coffee, a newspaper, a caring face. The praise for his 'therapist' was astounding, because her profile gave little away, and kept much a secret. All he had gathered was that she knew a bit more than she let on, about subjects he couldn't name. And she had sought him out, walked right to his door with the courage to reach out to him, a man she had never seen, had never even heard of. Yet...

"How did you find out about me, if my late brother never gave any mention of my existence?" He watched her angle her face towards him, her eyes stay for a moment before shifting to the bay windows. The view outside was grey, lightly misted with the season. Mycroft wondered what she was thinking, if she was formulating a false answer or tasting the truth before giving it to him.

Then Molly rose to her feet, and for a second he feared she would hurry for the door. Instead, she paused before turning to the windows, stepping slowly, each pace measured, exact, unconscious. Lightly, she touched a thin fingered hand to the glass pane, the other holding her waist. "I'm sorry for invading your privacy. I shouldn't have done."

She didn't look back at him, but he could see her wispy reflection caught in the glass, trapped and wounded, alone. Maybe that was how she was feeling, or maybe it was the mist and the looming rain, the lull of the slight chill just a half-inch away.

He waited patiently, and after a silent measure, she continued. When she did, her voice held a purposeful tone, all lecture, no emotion."It's the responsibly of the mortician to contact family for identification of the body in the event of death. When there is no believed relatives in the area or otherwise, we are permitted to run a search in the database, to acquire the place where late relatives have been buried. Your name came up during an obituary search, marked as living."

A heavy silence fell, and while Molly did not turn around, Mycroft no longer wished that she would. He was afraid of what he would see in those unreadable eyes. A reflection of her pain in the glass could not be worse than the reflection of himself that was sure to be caught in her eyes. If that was what she found in the database she searched, he was terrified of what she knew and hadn't told him. All those secrets, all that information, with a single click everything was at her fingertips. He had to believe though, for the sake of his sanity, that Molly hadn't violated his privacy further than to locate him.

"I didn't even know for sure if you lived here."

Mycroft, hand quivering ever so, set his untouched tea on the saucer. "You guessed. You knew absolutely nothing and you still tried."

Her voice was small and all consuming in the same sweep; very slowly she faced him, an ocean of unknown encasing her brown eyes. "Should I go?"

"No!"

He was on his feet in a heartbeat, and being clumsy with his quick unplanned movements resulted in spilt tea seeping across the rug. A flash of heat broke across his forehead. He was desperate to keep her there.

Molly had knelt to the floor, mopping up the spill with the cloth napkins that had accompanied the tea. He knelt too, apologizing -

_"I'm not coming inside until I finish my experiment!" Sherlock's voice hollered through his mind, clear as finely cut crystal -_

_Then an image, a small boy with shocking black hair, trousers fraying at the ends, sleeves rolled up. So young, so unknowing. "When I grow up I'm going to be a pirate Mycroft. You can be my first mate if I still like you, which I probably will." -_

_Lonely, painfully, gut-wrenchingly lonely, desperate and hurting and covered in muck and rain and debris. An awkward teen with a mind too big for his mouth to monitor, bullied by his peers into submission that defeated him. Found, stinking of urine, sweat, vomit, garbage - suffocating beneath the thick curtain of the underworld. "Sherlock!" a single cry of relief, echoing through the hollows of his memory -_

Mycroft shook his head violently, clearing his eyes, regaining control of who he was now, leaving behind who he had been then.

Molly had vanished, and with a deafening slam, he watched her hurry over the stone walk, away from him and what she'd caused.


End file.
